Midgar Nights
by Nike Athena
Summary: The nightmare begins; a hideous assasination by none other than Mr Vincent Valentine starts off the story. However, Vincent is powerless to control his life. It's hard to, when you're a TURK.


**Midgar Nights**

**Chapter One**

The night was quiet in the oppressive heat, the sounds of traffic muted. The surrounding buildings hunched over the bright, ribbon of the street like the dead: decrepit, rotting, silent. Few windows were open, because the turgid air inside was far better than the filth-ridden air on the out. Fewer still had people looking out; Midgar, the center of power, wasn't exactly eye-candy. People started to withdraw and the city grew dark, with the only lights on those of the sinners or insomniacs.

A row of white, sharp teeth glinted in the streetlamps below the empty building as they clenched around the stock of a gun and the bullet audibly clicked into the chamber. The gun caught the light and flashed as it was lowered to the open windowsill. A puff on the cigarette put back into the mouth and a freak of the wind gave a face to the sniper. But it was pale and the eyes were sad; it hardly looked like the face of a killer. The spidery hand holding the gun lifted a thumb as joyful laughter passed below and fanned down the hammer. The gun roared.

"Wow." Said a male's obnoxious, overly cheery voice. "You certainly nailed that one, gang. Right on the head." The man chuckled at the pun as the daily _News Today_ hit the table and slid down. The picture was an amateur's, but good enough to get the point across; a young man sprawled on the cracked and filthy sidewalk, half of his head blown in.

"Ugh." Was the only commentary, made by a young man with red hair and eyes. He slumped in the office seat and made a disgruntled face.

The scene was so mundane; one wouldn't have guessed the unspeakable atrocities that were born in that room. Thirteen men, ranging in age from seventeen to twenty-seven sat in black leather office seats, either drinking coffee, smoking, or simply waking up. One of the young men with grayish black hair yawned widely, and said, with remnants of tears in his eyes,

"I suppose someone gets a promotion, then." He glanced over at the perpetrator of the horror on the paper and winked. "Right, Vincent?" Vincent Valentine said nothing and reached over to the man sitting next to him, took his pack of cigarettes and removed one. No one would have guessed that beyond that cool façade, the mask on his face, he was trembling and sweating; it was apparent when he put the cigarette into his mouth and tried to light it, but the cigarette kept stuttering in his shaking lips. Eventually, his comrade took the cigarette into his own mouth and lit it, took a drag to start it and gave it back. Vincent took a drag, closing his eyes and welcomed the burning sensation that filled his throat and lungs. The shaking stopped and he opened his eyes to calmly regard the assemblage before him.

"So what's next?" Vincent said, rather deadpan. The head of the Department of Administrative Research looked slightly unnerved; Vincent stared long and hard at him, with no idea why the man was so antsy.

"Well, it's a momentous one. The Department of Science is going into the ocean to investigate power emissions coming from there. It doesn't seem to be anything resembling Mako or Lifestream, but it's extremely powerful. Naturally, the scientists need protection; they're like babe's in the wood, helpless, alone, naïve-." Vincent Valentine loosing his temper and lashing out cut his uncious speech suddenly short.

"For fuck's sake, we're not SOLDIERs who get a rise from a few pretty words—cut to the case, dammit! And the scientists are **not** helpless; I know for a fact that the newest intern is an expert marksman when he's not high off of some ungodly concoction! Don't make them sound weak!"

Vincent's chastising made the Head flinch; he was about to retort along the lines of "Step down!" or some statement that made Vincent remember his rank when a new voice inserted itself into the conversation.

"Yes, really, Komoko. I'd be ashamed, were I you. Not only do you make us sound weak, you make us sound like oblivious fools." The TURK's were looking now at the owner of the voice and some were nervously reaching for weapons. The young man standing at the doorway looked like a scarecrow in a lab coat. His eyes were vaguely mad and his face was tinged with chemicals and a day or two growth of beard, stretched by a maniacal grin, looking down the barrel of a Walther P99.

The room was silent and still, like a collective breath before the blow. The young man licked his lips and his trigger-finger began applying pressure when a firm hand clamped down upon his arm and forced it to a safety position. A man just taller than the gunman stepped next to the mad young scientist and looked regretfully at the gathered Department.

"Sorry we're late." He said finally. "I'm Doctor John Gast and this is my assistant, Shinoki Hojo."


End file.
